Personal Boundaries
by wecouldexplorethegalaxy
Summary: Sherlock doesn't have them.  In the course of one day John loses: his good leather belt, autonomy over his pockets, and sight of Sherlock in a crowd of dancers.


What Sherlock had failed to list as one of his short-comings on the day he and John met for the first time was this; Sherlock's respect for personal space and belongings began and ended with himself.

"John, give me your belt."

"I'm sorry, what?" John paused in the door of the kitchen, a mug of tea held in both hands as he stared back at Sherlock.

"Your belt, John, your belt," Sherlock said impatiently. He was hunched over the counter, a bubbling beaker suspended in a wire hanger over his head and slowly dripping something clear through a long plastic tub and into a syringe that Sherlock was staring into intently. The counter top around him was littered with debris; sticks, leaves, flowers, pieces of what looked suspiciously like bacon. "Well, come on then." Sherlock twirled a long, narrow knife between his fingers.

John backed up a step, clutching his mug tighter. "I'd rather have an explanation, first, as to why I'd be und—"

"I swear, you are the most insufferably dim-witted man I have ever encountered!" Sherlock sprang up, dropping his knife with a clatter on the floor and lunging for John. "I'm on the verge of a discovery that could not only change forensic science as we know it but also make _your _job infinitely simpler," he said rapidly, grabbing the belt-loops of John's jeans and pulling him within reach. "And all I need is your belt, so don't be stingy."

John rolled his eyes and glared up at the ceiling, a slow burn spreading across his cheeks as Sherlock undid his belt with a few deft movements and pulled it free before immediately throwing it onto the counter. Sherlock scooped up his knife and slammed it point first into the leather, tearing an inch long rent through it.

"What the hell are you _doing_?" John exclaimed, embarrassment forgotten as he put his mug down on the counter and seized back his belt, holding up his jeans with his free hand.

"Give it back," Sherlock demanded, beckoning with an impatient hand.

"No!" John retorted, staring desolately at the tear in the leather. "This is real leather! This was a gift!" He tugged up his shirt, sliding the belt back into place.

"I can _fix _it!" Sherlock insisted and snatched the belt back, his knuckles brushing the bare skin of John's hips, sending him jerking backwards.

"Oh, for God's sake." John threw his hands up and turned away, too angry to be embarrassed, but spun back almost immediately to reclaim his tea. "I don't know why I even bother. Of _course_ you couldn't just watch telly on your day off." He dropped into his favorite chair, nursing the tea sullenly while he glared at nothing in particular. He'd learned a thing or two about sulking from his time in 221B.

Unheeding, Sherlock bent over the belt, syringe in hand, carefully dripping its contents over the slice in the material. Where the clear substance touched the jagged cut, the leather fizzled for a moment before sealing together as if it had never been apart.

Sherlock allowed a small grin of triumph to cross his features as he held aloft the undamaged belt. He tossed it over the back of John's chair, eliciting a muffled protest as it thumped against the doctor's back.

Sherlock crossed his arms and smugly awaited John's reaction.

"…You _did _fix it," he said, after a moment. Then—"Good thing too, or I would've had you buy a new one for me, and God knows what kind of rumors that would stir up."

Sherlock frowned. That wasn't exactly as he'd imagined it. "I've created a substance," he said, soldiering on despite the chilly reception, "that mimics exactly the chemical make-up of organic compounds."

"I don't suppose there's a reason you felt you had to use _my _belt and not yours?" John's voice floated over the top of his chair, the top of his head barely visible over it.

"Yes. Mine is expensive," Sherlock snapped. "Because I, unlike you, do not dress myself like a color-blind man on welfare."

"Well, that was uncalled for," John said mildly. "Did you ever think that maybe all those expensive clothes are why you needed a flatshare to begin with?"

"Shut up," Sherlock replied cleverly, considerably put off by John's failure to admire his brilliance.

"How did you even know it was real leather?" John asked. "Aside from the obvious, like the state of my sleeves, or some such."

Sherlock glared daggers into the back of John's chair. "I have just made a break -through that could change the way medicine is practiced forever," he said coldly.

John sipped his tea gingerly, the hot liquid burning his lips as he took his passive aggressive vengeance. Oh, he'd pay for it later, most likely in the form of a screeching violin at three in the morning, but at the moment it was well worth it. "Very good," he said blandly.

"Fine," Sherlock said. He stood and crossed the room in several angry, jerky steps and tossed himself onto the couch. He folded himself up facing the wall, presenting John with an extremely haughty back.

Sherlock glared into the couch, nursing his wounded pride and thinking of how conveniently easy it would be to break into John's bedroom and reconfigure the plumbing in his bathroom to make the water colder when he turned the dial to hot and vice versa. He heard the rustle of paper as John picked up a newspaper, doubtless fluffing it in front of him in that ridiculous way he had before moving again—moving why? To pick up his tea, no, Sherlock would have heard the scrap of the mug across the horrible little table John insisted they keep from his old flat—

"The Durwood case is back on," Sherlock said, unfolding himself abruptly and swinging his legs off the couch.

John looked up from the phone in his hand, mouth slightly open and eyebrows slightly raised in what Sherlock privately thought of as his "I'm perpetually two steps behind you because you're so fantastically brilliant Sherlock" face.

"This is your phone," he said. "Lestrade just texted you on your phone. Why was it in my pocket?"

Sherlock shrugged and stood, stepping up onto the coffee table and then across it. He'd really have to move that one day, he thought. Or perhaps he could get John to do it. He snatched the phone out of John's outstretched hand and read the text quickly, a somewhat manic grin spreading across his face.

"They found the club, then, did they?" Sherlock murmured, mostly to himself. "I told them there would be a club involved."

"Why was your phone," John said, pausing frequently, "in my pocket? In my jeans pocket?"

Sherlock paused in putting on his coat to shoot John a scornful look. "Because I put it there." He knotted his scarf around his neck. "Well, hurry up."

He all but pulled John out of his seat, helping him into his jacket to speed their exodus. John attempted to tug himself away fruitlessly, then sighed heavily and went limp as Sherlock finished stuffing his arms into the proper holes.

"Why would you do that?" John asked as he locked the door to their flat behind them.

"Because he is—was the _proprietor _of this club. Of course, it was all very hush, hush, couldn't have the wife and the office know about it, but—"

"No, why did you put the phone in my trousers?"

Sherlock paused at the curb, arm out to hail a taxi. "What does it matter?" he said exasperatedly. As a cab pulled up to the curb, Sherlock rattled off an address to the cabbie, but not before giving the man at the wheel a quick once over. He slumped against the side of the cab, checking his watch. It was just getting dark; that was convenient—it meant the club would most likely be open. Getting in would be another matter entirely—Sherlock would be damned if he had to wait in line. Maybe he could stagger out of the cab, pretend to be drunk and—

"How did you get it in there? Without me noticing?"

Sherlock's head fell back against the seat. "Really, John?"

John looked indignant. "I'd like to know when you're getting your hands in my trousers," he said with as much dignity as he could manage. "Everyone at the Yard's already got their theories, but I think I have a much better right to know."

Sherlock leveled a glare at him. "Since you apparently are going to hang onto this one trivial point with the pitbull like-tenacity that you so rarely channel into anything useful, I suppose I have no choice but to explain."

"Really, Sherlock," John said reprovingly. "You can be a little trying at times."

"I put the phone in your pocket when you were occupied with the kettle because I knew I was going to be busy and not want to be interrupted, so you could answer it for me, alright? Are you quite happy now?" Sherlock said, starting hatefully out the window.

John pursed his lips.

The cab pulled to a halt and the two men exited onto the twilit street. Neon signs above pubs, clubs, and restaurants were just starting to buzz on, casting an unhealthy glow on the many pedestrians. Laughing girls in short skirts and boys carrying beer cans staggered down the sidewalks, jostling Sherlock and John as they inspected their surroundings.

"There," Sherlock said, pointing to a club across the street. There was no sign above it but a strange curved symbol—Wiccan, Sherlock thought disdainfully. The windows were blackened, and a long line of slightly tipsy people curved down the street from the entrance.

John stared at it apprehensively as Sherlock crossed the street. After a moment, he shook his head, looked both ways down the street, and jogged after his flatmate.

"You'll get run over if you keep that up," he commented, catching up to Sherlock as the taller man pulled his scarf off over his head as he walked. He ducked into a narrow alley that smelled unpleasantly of fish and John followed him, pausing for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness.

"Hold this," Sherlock said, dropping the scarf around John's neck.

"Sure. Why not? Good of you to ask," John said, mostly to himself.

"And these," Sherlock said, pulling off first his coat and then his blazer before dropping both in John's arms.

John folded both articles neatly with an indulgent sigh and tucked them under his arm before straightening the scarf around his neck, watching curiously as Sherlock roughly rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt.

"What are you doing?" John asked, shifting his weight from side to side. He glanced behind them—they were apparently going unnoticed by the crowd of partiers in the street.

Sherlock quickly undid the top four buttons of his shirt, revealing a long expanse of white neck, the curve of a collar bone. "Disguise," he said shortly.

John stared up at the darkening sky, visible only in a thin stripe between the buildings, with an expression of polite interest on his face. "Really."

"Yes really," Sherlock said irritably. He ruffled his own hair, a gesture of frustration as well as an effort to look more disheveled. He pulled the hem of his shirt out from the top of his trousers, letting it hang down sloppily, and he grimaced. "Stay close behind me."

With that, his shoulders slumped, he jammed his hands in his pockets, and he strolled out onto the street with an unfocused grin on his face. John followed warily as Sherlock made his way lazily past the line to the entrance of the club.

"Hey man…hey," he said vaguely to the doorman.

John stood close behind him, resisting the urge to put a steadying hand on Sherlock's back. He knew he was only acting, but Sherlock's high-as-a-kite act was a little too realistic for comfort.

"You gotta VIP?" the doorman said. He was a short, stocky man with a long red beard and a bald head, wearing knock-off designer clothes, glaring at them both with expression of a man who'd seen this bullshit before.

He let his smile droop into a slack-jawed frown. "Yeah, yeah, hold on, man." He made a show of searching his pockets, then turned to John. "In my coat, man, try my coat pocket."

Nonplussed, John searched the pockets of Sherlock's coat, coming up with a magnifying glass, an empty box of nicotine patches, and something that looked and felt disturbingly like a dried beetle. "There's…nothing in here, Sherlock," he said blankly.

"Oh, fancy that," Sherlock said, his voice snapping back to its usual briskness as he pressed a fifty into the doorman's fist.

He looked down in surprise, then up again to Sherlock, who was looking imperiously down his nose at the shorter man. "Well, I guess if you forgot it, Mr. Smith, I could still let you in."

Sherlock smiled coldly as he swept by, ignoring the angry shouts of the line he'd bypassed. John shuffled behind him, awkwardly apologizing and trying to keep Sherlock's coat from dragging on the sticky pavement.

The noise and lights of the club hit Sherlock like a brick as he walked in the door. He squinted into the flashing lights, tuning out the heavy, thumping beat the DJ was turning out. He could hear snippets of at least twenty conversations—that girl was thinking of cheating on her boyfriend, a foolish move on her part if that ring on her finger was any indication, and that man over there was trying to fight his attraction to his young female companion, a pointless endeavor judging by the amorous looks she was shooting him. The girl behind the bar was going to be off in five minutes, and was planning on leaving with the boy at the end of the bar. There was nothing here but the smell of alcohol, sex and marijuana, cheap perfume and expensive cologne, the flash of sequins and gems and gleam of silk and leather.

He closed his eyes tightly, pressing the tips of his fingers to his temples. He could feel the sound beating against his skin, this was ridiculous, all he had to do was get to the back rooms and get out, the prescriptions should be there, prove Durwood's debt wasn't the reason for his death—

"Sherlock. Sherlock." A strong hand pressed against his shoulder, the thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles into the tensed muscles. The sound receded, falling back to a bearable volume.

Sherlock's eyes blinked open, meeting John's concerned gaze. John's hand fell away from his flatmate's shoulder, plucking at his wrist and leading him over to a high table in a darkened corner. John sat on one of the stools and Sherlock sat on the table above him, his knees bumping into John's shoulders. They both valiantly ignored the couple behind them, though John snickered at Sherlock's wince after a particularly loud slurp.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock looked down at him, studying the worry lines crinkling John's brow, the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed. His eyes were more black than blue, dilated in the darkness of the club.

"Wait for me here. Tell me if you see a brunette with a leather jacket." With that, Sherlock slid off the table and melded with the crowd.

John watched him go, blending with the dancers effortlessly in what John assumed was an attempt to cross the dance floor unnoticed, rather than skulk around hugging the wall in a more memorable way. It wasn't going quite as Sherlock hoped, John could see. His lips quirked up in a small smile as he saw heads turn, men and women alike casting appreciative eyes on his flatmate. John tilted his head. He'd never seen Sherlock dance, and he knew he was likely never to again, so he figured he'd best pay attention, if only for blackmail purposes. Sherlock normally moved with an inhuman grace, but dancing was a social thing that Sherlock had probably deleted from his hard drive as irrelevant.

After a moment, John closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled slowly, feeling his blood pumping in his fingertips.

"He yours?" asked a man with a brash American accent sitting next to him, who'd apparently arrived next to him somewhere after Sherlock tilting back his head with his eyes closed and his lips parted in a fake-drunken fit of ecstasy but before the incredibly fit girl in the leather skirt sliding up his shirt and tracing the sharp lines of his hips before Sherlock broke away.

John shook his head briskly. "Sorry?"

"That one." The man nodded towards Sherlock, who was slowly but surely making his way across the dance floor in what John thought to be the most indecent manner humanly possible. He hadn't even thought it was _possible _to move one's hips that way.

"Uh, yes. No, no, I mean, no, I'm here with him, but we're just colleagues."

The American cast a disbelieving eye on John. "Right. If I looked at my colleagues like that I'd be fired for sexual harassment."

John glanced at the man, then did a double take. "Shut up," he said irritably.

The man shrugged. "Whatever. Not my business." He stood up, drink in hand, and vanished towards the bar.

"No. No it's not," John agreed belatedly.

By the time John had counted to fifteen backwards while holding his breath and looked back at the dance floor, Sherlock had disappeared, presumably into the rooms behind the club to do whatever he'd come to do.

"Brunette with…a leather jacket," John said to himself, standing up and brushing off his jeans. "Also, alcohol." He kept a sharp eye on any dark haired girls he passed on his way to the bar, watching for leather jackets tied around their waists or draped over their arms, but took much less pleasure in his duty than he would have earlier that evening.

He slumped onto a barstool next to two young women who gave him confused but coquettishly drunken grins that he did not return. He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing at his temples as the throb of the music hit him in waves. Getting drunk would doubtless not help his headache, and he should probably stay sober since Sherlock was on the hunt, which usually led to Sherlock doing something _stupid _and risking his life and John would probably have to shoot someone-.

John slammed his hand down on the countertop. "_Damn_," he said, startling the two girls, who shuffled their stools a little farther away. "Sorry," he said to them. "Sorry, I'm so sorry."

To his surprise, John felt something cold pressed into his hand. He looked up in confusion at the pretty girl behind the bar, her black hair pulled into a sloppy bun, who was handing him a small glass filled with something that smelled comfortingly like whisky.

"Shot for your conscience?" she said, and winked.

John gazed at it longingly for a minute, then pushed it back towards her. "You have no idea how much I need this, but I need to stay sober—"

"On the house," the girl said, and edged it back towards him.

John gazed at the little glass intently for a moment, then tossed it back quickly, warmth shooting through his limbs and burning away the nosy American's words.

"Thought so," the girl said, satisfied, and walked away to deal with other patrons. John glanced back at her—a green t shirt.

Oh, well, he thought, leaning back against the bar and continuing his inspection of the crowd.

It was only moments later when he saw Sherlock's familiar tousled head pushing through the dancers, no longer caring about blending in.

"It _was_ a suicide," he said irritably, his face flushed and his hair sticking up in sweaty spikes. "He'd gone off his medication for bi-polar disorder. The bottle was given to him weeks ago and it was still full. His debts had nothing to do with it."

"So…what now?" John asked, standing and handing Sherlock back his coat, which he refused.

"We call the Yard and tell Lestrade to call his dogs off Leslie Harmsen," Sherlock said. "She's innocent. Oh, congratulations on finding Miranda."

"Sorry?" John asked politely.

Sherlock rapped smartly on the countertop, calling over the bargirl who grinned widely when she saw the lanky man. John followed the line of the countertop to a seat behind it, upon which a leather jacket was neatly folded.

"Sherlock!" she said, seizing his hand and shaking it warmly. "The tip paid off, did it?"

"Yes, and well done, Miranda," he replied, beckoning for John. He reached into John's back pocket and pulled out his own wallet, peeling off a note, and handing it to Miranda who held it up to the light before pocketing it happily.

John stared down as Sherlock replaced the wallet in his own pocket. "Why was your wallet in my trousers?" he asked.

"You want anything to drink before you go, Sherlock?" Miranda asked.

"No, thank you, you've done quite enough for tonight. Best regards to your mother," Sherlock said, then grabbed John firmly by the arm and steered him out the door and into the cool night air. He kept up a fast pace until they were well away from the club and the crowds had thinned out. By now it was quite late, and the few people on the street with the two men were either walking too quickly or were too drunk to pay them any attention.

"Who was that?" John asked. He patted his pockets surreptitiously, feeling only his own wallet and phone.

Sherlock shivered, the sweat on his face and neck drying quickly in the late summer breeze. He rolled down his shirt sleeves and took his coat back from John, pulling it back on and jamming his hands into the pockets. "Miranda Moffat," he said. "One of the Baker Street Irregulars." A wry grin crossed his face. "I get her jobs, and she keeps me informed. It's a neat little arrangement."

"The…Baker Street Irregulars," John said, a statement rather than a question. "Of course. Of course you have your own information network. I should have known."

Sherlock looked down at John, irritated puzzlement clear on his face. "Yes, you really should have." He stepped into the street, hailing a passing cab.

"Sherlock," John said, climbing into the car after his flatmate. "I have a very serious issue to address."

"Fire away, Doctor," Sherlock said, his fever-bright eyes flicking around the inside of the cab.

"You have your own trousers," John declared. "Please use them for storage, and not mine."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then closed them. "Text Lestrade. Tell him to let Harmsen go, and that I will be at the Yard tomorrow morning to give him the full report." He heard John fish around in his pockets for a moment, then the slow clicking that indicated John's typing. Sherlock felt heavy all the way through his bones, and it felt like sand was trickling into his head. He supposed he must have inhaled second hand marijuana fumes while in the back rooms—he had a sensation in his stomach like he was falling, but oh, there, he'd hit something soft and warm and it had stopped him—

"Sherlock, how long has it been since you last slept?"

Sherlock cracked open one eye and was quite surprised to find that what had once been vertical was now horizontal. "About four days. Why?"

"Because you seem to have fallen asleep on my lap."

Sherlock twisted slightly, glaring up into John's concerned face. "It makes it very difficult to continue to do so when you insist on talking about it."

"Right," John said, with a bemused look. "Right. Shutting up now."

"Good," Sherlock said sleepily, blinking rapidly as fatigue lapped around the edges of his mind. His senses went fuzzy as he drifted off, but he still felt warm hands brushing the hair off his forehead.


End file.
